


Bifurcation

by Ldigo



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesiac Jeremiah Valeska, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Child Abuse, Conduct Disorder, Gen, M/M, Non-Chronological, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Protectiveness, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Psychopaths In Love, Twincest, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:54:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29786070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ldigo/pseuds/Ldigo
Summary: A boy called Xander remembers nothing about his life before the day he woke up on a hospital bed, only for the adults to sigh in relief and discard a cemetery plot in favor of a place at the nearest orphanage. They give him albums and sketchbooks and pitying looks, but he accepts neither. He finds scraps of paper and draws intricate mazes, each more complex than the previous one, as though he is merely retaking the steps he’s already surmounted years ago. Right in the heart of every maze he painstakingly traces two letters, J and J, intertwined.He knows with unshakeable conviction that something — someone— is missing, and it feels ten times worse than any amount of physical pain. Their absence feels like a fantom agony, like a glaring, gaping wound in place of a limb that should’ve never been ripped off.Xander remembers nothing, but he is determined to find out everything.
Relationships: Jeremiah Valeska & Jerome Valeska, Jeremiah Valeska/Jerome Valeska
Comments: 12
Kudos: 13





	1. I will travel the distance in your eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I know posting a new work while my arms are already full might be not the best course of action, but I’ve been sitting on it for ages and cannot resist the temptation any longer. Hopefully you’ll like this well enough.
> 
> The chapter title comes from this beautiful song “Telescope” by Starset.

Xander wakes with a scream locked in his throat, trashing wildly, fighting against something that’s dragging him down, down, _down_ , until water threatens to enter his overstrained lungs. He manages to land a lucky kick on the whore, then flip them over so that _he_ is the one holding her underwater, and it feels glorious, exhilarating. But no — he cannot kill her now, not when he is _this close_ to leaving all of this behind. He cannot risk ruining his future for a brief moment of triumph over the bitch who’s already ruined his whole childhood.

Besides, no one but her is able to give him the answer he covets most. No one but her knows where Je—

“—lde! Mr. Wilde!” He hears the faint croak, but it sounds all wrong. His whore of a mother has a drastically different drawl, choked or not.

He glances down and stares, uncomprehending, at a vaguely familiar girl that is decidedly _not_ the bitch for a few moments. He blinks...

And recoils with a shudder, emerging from the throes of his nightmare — yet another one of many — as though breaking the surface of the water after a deep dive, figuratively as well as literally. Just a new snippet to add to his mental compendium (still unimpressive even after all these years) of everything that has to do with his family. Or his brother, to be precise, because from what he’s gathered, his mother is hardly a parent of the year material, and his father even less so — due to the man’s glaring absence.

God, he was so, _so_ close to finally learning something useful, perhaps even his true name (anything would’ve been better than a name matrons at the orphanage picked at random to honor some saint who’d just so happened to enjoy reading too), but no, Ecco had to intervene again. Why wouldn’t she just leave him the hell alone?

“Are you alright, Mr. Wilde?” The woman in question inquires cautiously, apparently not at all bothered by angry red hand-shaped bruises that are starting to blossom around her neck. Then again, she’s always accepted his violent outbursts — intentional or otherwise — without so much as a single protest or attempt to protect herself. Barely needed to be conditioned at all, in fact.

“Ecco, my faithful echo,” he murmurs tenderly, waits until she smiles, eyes half-closed with delight at her favorite endearment, then quickly grabs the hand-gun strapped to the bottom of his bed and fires, missing her head by an inch. She flinches, but it’s more of an instinctual reaction than a display of fear. “Of course I’m perfectly well! Would’ve been even better if you hadn’t interrupted my dream!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wilde,” she flinches again, contrite at the very possibility of letting him down. Not that it ever stopped her from sticking her nose where it didn’t belong out of some misplaced concern, unfortunately.

He would’ve gotten rid of her ages ago for her daring if she weren’t this useful. Almost indispensable, even, but not quite.

He needs to remind her of her place once again, it seems.

“I’m beginning to wonder,” he starts musingly, then stops to appraise her motionless form, laid prostrate on the floor of his dimly lit bedroom, “if you are even capable of learning at all. Perhaps the very concept of _personal space_ is too hard for your clearly inferior brain, since you repeatedly fail to grasp it.”

He pauses again, giving her time to speak in her defense, and relishes in the silence that follows. Not that he expected any different from his willing slave, of course — she hasn’t sized the opportunity once for the whole duration of their acquaintance.

“Well,” he tuts, “at least I won’t have to suffer through your insolence once the constructions are finished.”

As predicted, Ecco cannot help but blanch at that. “Wh-what do you mean, Mr. Wilde? Are you... sending me away?” The woman whispers miserably, tear tracks already running down her cheeks. Jeremiah knows what she’s really asked. _Do you not have any need of me anymore? Am I useless?_

“Not entirely,” he answers to both — after a contemplative pause, so as not to give her an impression that she might be valuable to him. “Once my bunker is ready, your presence won’t be required with the same regularity. You’ll find your own apartment — in fact, you may keep this one if you want — and come by when I tell you to. I still expect my orders to be carried out at once, of course, but there’ll be no need for you to stay with me in such a secure location.”

“Oh,” she swallows, looking crestfallen. Xander knows she’ll keep the place and likely won’t even rearrange anything — she is disturbingly devoted like this. “I understand, Mr. Wilde.”

“See that you do,” he nods, getting up from where he’s been seated on the floor, back pressed to the foot of his bed. He has a project due in little over a week, and he’s barely even started, too distracted by finally starting to build a true home for himself and the increased frequency of dreams. There’s no time to waste.

When he leaves the bedroom, he pretends not to notice Ecco trembling and sobbing silently, still sprawled on the floor.

**JVJVJV**

His projects — both the work-related and the personal one — are coming along nicely. His contractor hasn’t even put in any last-minute specifications that absolutely _had_ to be implemented, which was a pleasant change of pace from the streak of morons he’s had to endure for the past couple of months.

However, he can’t help but feel discontent, restless. There’s an itch in his mind that’s begging to be scratched, as though he’s forgotten something crucial. He knows, though, that he never does forget anything of import — and he’s checked countless times over just to make sure.

Nevertheless, the feeling is persistent. It wouldn’t go away no matter how hard he tries to get rid of it. If anything, it’s just getting stronger and bolder.

Xander is not used to being in a disagreement of sorts with his own mind. He is not used to being not in control of every thought and impulse, every aspect of his life. It bothers him more than he cares to admit, and several strangers — and Ecco, his sweet, devoted Ecco — bear the brunt of his increasingly short temper.

Some clinical part of him is even wondering detachedly just how far he can push her before she breaks. It’s yet to happen, thankfully — his accomplice keeps on surprising him with her endurance.

Be it as it may, though, he’s... unsure how long he can manage to go on like this. Something’s got to give — and he sure as hell hopes it won’t be the thin veneer of normalcy he’s painstakingly created throughout the course of his life, since the very moment he woke up on that too white hospital bed with no recollection of what had transpired up until that point.

This life he’s forged for himself is not ideal, of course, but he doesn’t want to have to rearrange it, to construct a new routine — or adhere to that of some prison’s or asylum’s, if he isn’t swift or skillful enough in his escape. Besides, his search for his brother would also be affected negatively if he were to slip up.

And _that_ is the one thing Xander won’t ever stand for. Nothing and no one comes between his brother and him, not even his own mind.

And not even his brother, on the minuscule chance that he might not jump at the opportunity to be freed from the abusive whore’s clutches for some inexplicable reason.

Not that Xander expects to be met with much resistance on that front. The only major problem is actually locating his ever-elusive relatives in the first place, and then all will be well.

He will make sure of that.

Of course, he has to rethink his strategy the morning he picks up the issue of Gotham Gazette with its front page devoted to the gruesome murder of Haley’s Circus’ snake charmer, Lila Valeska, and subsequent orphaning of her 17 year old son Jerome. He stares at his own face looking back at him from the upper right corner of the newspaper, uncomprehending, completely dumbfounded by the answer to his long-coveted question suddenly falling right into his lap.

Xander knows who killed the slut, he does, just as he knows that the police cannot possibly be incompetent enough to not figure it out as well, given a bit of time and effort. But he’ll be damned if he lets his brother — his _twin_ — suffer a single day of punishment for doing the world a favor. His mind is running a mile a minute with all the newfound revelations, but he can’t afford to process any of that right now, so he resolutely pushes away the tangled knot of thoughts and emotions — shock, panic, giddiness, _elation_ and who knows what else — and focuses on the problem at hand.

The door clicks, letting in his dearest accomplice with an armful of groceries, and Xander grins savagely, his eyes alit with something too raw, too manic to be considered sane.

“Ecco, my dear echo,” he purrs, turning around to face the woman. “Leave the bags on the kitchen counter and get ready, you have a new case to win, starting now. I know criminal defence is not exactly your forte, but I will be rather... disappointed if you fail. And you don’t want to see me disappointed.”

“Of course!” She harries to assure him, distraught at the very possibility of not carrying out a task he’s set for her to the best outcome possible. _Good_. “Who is my client?”

“My brother,” he announces, victorious, basking in the look of surprised delight blossoming on her face. “Pro bono, of course, but no one needs to know that. Tell them you’ve come on my behalf.”

“Of course, Mr. Wilde,” she nods, visibly composing herself before anything else might slip past her lips — just as she knows he likes.

“No, my dear. No ‘Mr. Wilde’ from now on,” he shakes his head with a smile full of wonder. “Mr. _Valeska_.”

“Understood, Mr. Valeska,” Ecco nods again, tasting the bittersweet sound of his true name for the first time. It doesn’t take her long to dress accordingly, and then she’s back in the kitchen, eagerly waiting for further instructions.

“I believe you might find my brother at the GCPD,” he says, passing her the article he’s been pouring over for minutes on end — so much so that he’s fairly confident in his ability to recall any given passage word for word. “And if you don’t, you’ll get your hands on the case file at the very least. Oh, and bear in mind that I _don’t_ wish for my mother’s killer to be found.”


	2. Komm und rette mich

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, when I said that I already had the second chapter ready, what I actually meant was apparently _I’ve had it for several weeks, perfectly intact and all, but once I actually got around to posting it, I suddenly found 247905257 details to be dissatisfied with, including the entire layout of the ff in question_. So I naturally had to rearrange the whole thing, which has taken some time. Sorry ‘bout that.  
> The part written in italics is a flashback of sorts. I plan to add one of those at the beginning of most chapters from now on.
> 
> On another note, the title is a line from Tokio Hotel song “Rette Mich”. It will be ‘come and rescue me’ in English.

_**There is something rotten between them** , Lila thinks, watching her sons playing excitedly in the mud with something she cannot quite distinguish from the distance. **Something more than the usual closeness between siblings, even twins. Something worse than obsessive adoration. Something larger than blind, unthinking devotion.**_

_She remembers them tender, tiny, naked, covered in her blood and waters, just emerging from the gaping maw of her ruthlessly cut stomach. She remembers the hot, slicing agony of the blade thrust into her skin, her muscle, her womb, too striking, too sudden even after hours of unbearable agony. She remembers how Jerome, boisterous, commandeering even in his very first moments alive, screeched at the top of his lungs, demanding attention exactly the same way he does years later; how she thought of her second son as a stillborn, if only for a few moments before a tiny, little whimper escaped him, filled with such gut-wrenching aloneness she almost felt sorry despite never having wanted to become a mother in the first place — and how both immediately fell silent upon being brought together._

_The only thing she doesn’t remember is feeling any burst of affection, any semblance of motherly instinct that would’ve engulfed her, seeped into her very being, made her love them and care for them. Back then she smiled and pressed them to her heavy chest, thinking that maybe, if she tried hard enough, she’d feel something other than numbness and apathy with a hint of irritation towards these two tiny, wrinkly, ugly creatures that’d been cut out of her like some sort of parasites._

_**I need to separate them** , she thinks, shuddering under the gaze of one of her sons (and God, they’re so similar she can’t even tell them apart at times), too heavy, too unflinching and loaded to belong on a four year old’s face._

_Or have they already turned five? She can’t remember._

_The second one lifts his head now too, sensing his brother’s changed mood without words. They seem to do it all the time, as if honestly baffled by other people’s need to communicate verbally, and Lila hates it how unnatural they are. Have been from the start, so much so that she couldn’t help but try to smother them with a pillow when they were barely a couple months old._

_Her brother saved them. She wishes he didn’t._

_Not that Zach loves them either. No one really does, apart from the twins themselves. And they don’t love anyone outside of their own little world that has only enough space for two living beings. Less than, since she’s almost certain they’re more than one person, and yet not quite two._

_Her second son shifts, his eyes less hard and unflinching, more emotional than his brother’s. Jerome, then. Lila’s gaze falls to where he’s trying to cover something up inconspicuously, and she gasps, stumbling backwards._

_It’s a bird. Or it was, until her psychopaths of sons came across the poor creature. Now it’s just blood and guts and feathers._

_She asks herself, **what have I ever done to deserve these brats?** The answer is nothing. Sure, she hasn’t been the kindest person around, but it’s not as if she’s ever murdered anyone either. She doesn’t deserve this nightmare of a motherhood._

_Jerome stops dead in his tracks, realizing the futility of his effort now, and eyes her wearily. He knows that children aren’t supposed to torture animals at least._

_Jeremiah, on the other hand, merely blinks and tilts his head to the side, ginger curls gleaming in the sunlight, as though he cannot comprehend how there possibly could be something wrong with their actions. As though these gory... games of theirs are perfectly normal in every way._

_Lila doesn’t know how to deal with this, with any of it._

_**I need to separate them, to pull them apart** , she thinks again, her mind already working through the task at hand._

_She turns around and leaves without uttering a single word._

**JVJVJV**

Jerome honestly hasn’t thought of Jeremiah for three whole days. A wonderful beginning, an outstanding achievement — and he can almost envision it crumbling to dust right before his eyes, because it’s sort of impossible to not think of someone if they’ve just unceremoniously shoved their way back into your life. Neither hide no hair of him in six years, eight months and twenty two days (not that Jerome has kept count, of course) — and here his wayward sibling is, dramatic and grandiose in true Jeremiah fashion. 

Well, not literally, since he’s sent some hot chick in his stead, but close enough.

Not that he isn’t grateful, of course (if a bit cautious — but who wouldn’t be if they knew his brother as well as he did, right?). He is. It’s just that it’s not quite how he imagined his day would progress when he received the early morning summons from GCPD. Seeing Paul Cicero there, the bloody snitch — and his and Jeremiah’s _biological father_ , apparently, but he is so not gonna think about it right now; or ever — was akin to a kick to the stomach with the whole momentum Uncle Zach’s overweight body could carry. He thought for sure that his fate was sealed.

That was, until the pretty cutthroat blonde has entered the picture on _Jeremiah’s_ orders. As if the day’s revelations couldn’t get any more world-shattering.

“It appears we are caught in an error of communication that needs dire fixing. Allow me to do just that,” was the first thing Jerome heard the girl saying, right outside the interrogation room he’d been brought into. Naturally, he liked her immediately, not even knowing yet who she was.

And then the door was opened with a resounding clank, and in came a young woman in a skintight pencil-skirt suit that probably costed more than Lila’s entire trailer, looking wholly unimpressed with some bulky, scruffy cop’s mumbled protests.

“Interrogating my client without me present?” She went on, talking effortlessly right over the guy as though he were beneath her, earning a few more brownie points with Jerome — at least until he caught up to what she was saying. “Or a Child Services representative at least? That’s terribly unlawful of you, Detective and... well, some lady who clearly isn’t supposed to be there.”

“Excuse me,” the _lady_ in question puffed up. Doctor or not, Jerome was pretty sure Gordon was banging her, and that was apparently reason enough to allow her in.

“Dr. Thompkins is our medical examiner, previously employed at Arkham,” his least favorite cop on the planet explained, not doing a particularly good job at hiding his annoyance. “She has every right and qualification to be present. Now, if you—“

“So you are attempting to force upon my client — who, may I add, is in dire disarray after what happened to his poor mother — an impromptu psych evaluation? Wonderful,” the pretty blonde cut Gordon off with a completely straight face, sauntering over to the table as if she owned the place. “And also unlawful. Don’t you worry, Mr. Valeska, Detective Gordon, I’ll mention these glaring breaches of protocol in our countercharges. Oh, and by the way, consider anything my client might have confessed under pressure until this very moment invalid.”

“I’m afraid we were not aware Jerome had a lawyer, otherwise we would have definitely contacted you,” Gordon responded, trying for apologetic but coming off as constipated instead. “Moreover, I believe his testimony is very much valid, since he hasn’t requested reaching you either.”

It would have been a perfect moment to join in on the conversation, but for the moment Jerome was pretty content to sit back and watch the tennis match unfold as a mere observer. So that was exactly what he did.

“Oh, really now?” Honestly, how was it possible to convey so much pitying condescension in a single raised eyebrow? It had to be a gift. “Of course this young man, not even an adult, would have the presence of mind to remember to call a lawyer while being unceremoniously dragged into your department under false pretenses and intimidated into submission immediately afterwards. Why wouldn’t he? Now, if you would be so kind as to allow us two a few minutes alone. And do send this stranger on his way, please. Otherwise your willingness to allow civilians in on interrogations will also be included in our countercharges.”

“Mr. Cicero here is no stranger. He is Jerome’s father,” Gordon argued, apparently not quick enough on uptake to realize that this blond bombshell possessed a sadistic streak of her own (not at all surprising in hindsight, considering who her actual employer is) and would love nothing more than to positively demolish the cop in any way she could.

“Nah, haven’t heard of it before now, actually,” Jerome said then, not missing the attorney’s _interesting_ reaction to the sound of his voice.

“Well,” she stared expectantly at Gordon, like a parent impatiently awaiting for their child to admit to some sort of wrongdoing, “even if this man is biologically related to my client — which we cannot be certain of as of yet, considering late _Miss_ Valeska’s... proclivities — he clearly doesn’t have any legal sway over Mr. Valeska’s life. Therefore, his presence is hardly required for any of the _private_ proceedings regarding my client’s predicament.”

And that was the end of it. Gordon obviously didn’t have anything else to add, no matter how much he wanted to. So, in a frankly futile effort to save his face, he got up and left with a barely discernible nod, ushering his love interest and Cicero along.

Leaving Jerome and the blonde alone just so he could bombard her with questions that needed answering, like, _right the fuck now_.

So truly, Jerome doesn’t have anyone else to blame for the fact that he is sitting here speechless, acutely resembling a gaping fish, and trying with all his might not to lose whatever fragile grip on — relative, really — sanity he has left.

**JVJVJV**

_I will not be cowed this easily_ , Ecco thinks, staring down at the Detective who fancies himself better, _purer_ than everyone else. Oh, she knows his sort perfectly; it’s the worst.

Thankfully, convincing Gordon to bow down instead is a child’s play. She doesn’t need to be at the top of her game for that — otherwise she would’ve probably let down her Master, and that is the last thing she wants. Not because of the just punishment; she honestly cannot bear the thought of disappointing Him in any way.

She hates herself viciously right now for this fault no one else’s even noticed, trying with all her might to get back in the mood. But she can’t help it. Her new client is the splitting image of her Master, down to the hairstyle and even choice of attire. Her Master has a selection of similar clothing for casual-formal settings when He wants to portray the image of a bashful, innocent genius.

And her client’s voice! No amount of auto-training would have prepared her for hearing her Master’s beautiful voice pouring out of His carbon copy’s mouth. The intonations and the accent are all wrong, but those are the only things that differ.

Nonetheless, the moment Gordon and his flock leave she gets straight to business. She cannot afford her thoughts wandering right now.

“Have you already incriminated yourself in any way?” She asks, then hurried to make up for her bold and even somewhat demanding intonation. “I’m sorry, I got there as soon as I managed, but—“

“Whoa there, toots!” Her client interrupts her just as self-assuredly as her Master, even if using different words. She closes her mouth immediately out of habit. “In case it’s escaped your notice, I’ve been unaware of having a lawyer either. Care to elaborate on this nuance?”

“Indeed, you didn’t have one until now,” she admits, since there’s really no point in lying about this right now — she’s only done so moments prior to intimidate Gordon into leaving them alone and hopefully unsupervised. The contract will be finalized soon enough. “I am paid for representing you by my generous employer, Mr... Wilde. He is looking forward to making your acquaintance. Or rather reacquaintance. And on that note, you need to sign here,” she opens her leather satchel and pulls out a few forms, setting them on the table, “here, and here. It’ll make our agreement official.”

Her Master’s brother signs off on the forms without further ado, not even looking through any of them. It’s clear his mind is elsewhere, and Ecco has a good guess as to where exactly.

Once he is finished, he focuses the entirety of his attention on her expectant face. She is towering above him, standing tall in her sensible heels while he is seated, but under his intense gaze, eerily reminiscent of her Master’s, it feels as though their positions are reversed.

“Sit,” he commands. She obeys. “Is it... No, it can’t be _him_ , can it? Who sent you here?”

“It can. He’s been looking for you for years, Mr. Valeska, and was rather... overjoyed this morning when you appeared in the newspapers,” she explains, barely able to contain her excitement at her Master’s good fortune. She watches disbelief warring with happiness and even cautiousness in his — _their_ — beautiful face, until it finally settles on something closely resembling her Master’s morning delight, almost manic in its intensity. “I think it’d be better if you talked this out in person, though, if you don’t mind.”

“In person,” her client whispers, nodding in agreement. His lips are slowly stretching in such a wide smile it would have probably unnerved some people, but Ecco hasn’t seen anything lovelier.

“If that’s solved,” she offers, almost hesitant to bring him back down to earthly matters, “our time is limited. Let us get back to the immediate concerns. Have you or have you not incriminated yourself while in here? It’s nothing catastrophic if you have, I assure you, albeit might prove some minor difficulties.”

Her client shakes his head, messing up his previously perfectly put together hairstyle. She smiles tenderly, once again reminded of her Master — his hair’s always been too unruly to remain tamed for long.

“No, not exactly,” her client confirms verbally, allowing Ecco to breath a bit easier. “Jim Gordon here accused me of my mother’s murder, yes, based on that blind fucker’s words I suspect, but I’ve yet to admit to this ridiculous insinuation. You see, we’ve got a little carried away by the mystery of my birth. Turns out Cicero is the lucky guy, though you already know that. Oh, and you might want to pass this _interesting_ information along, by the way, since _he_ shouldn’t be aware either.”

“No, he isn’t. Always told me you didn’t have a father,” she ponders it for a moment, then adds, “Same difference, if you ask me. Anyway, was there anything else?”

“Nothing. I called her a cold-hearted whore who never loved anyone, and then you came barging in like a fairytale knight in shining armor. Or a Horseman.”

“I see,” she says, not lingering overly much over Lila Valeska’s description. Besides, it’s true, isn’t it? It’s the same woman who almost killed Ecco’s Master — and that is a sin punishable by death far worse than mere dismemberment with a blunt axe. “So their whole indictment is centered around a blind man’s testimony, I take it?”

Her client nods, and her heart fills with warmth at the confirmation that her work is basically cut out for her. Master will be very pleased.

There is just one more detail left to be cleared up, then. So she asks, “How much?”

“What?” Her client blinks and tilts his head to the right in the exact same way that her Master does. It’s comforting.

“Do you know how much of your mother’s murder Mr. Cicero has supposedly witnessed, and what other claims is he willing to swear by?”

“Well, according to the Detective, Mr. Cicero let me in his trailer to wash off the blood, and then came up with this elaborate fabrication to conceal my involvement,” her client recalls with hurt incredulity that sounds so real, so genuine it’d be a real waste if no one actually listened in. “I wonder though how they plan on proving it without any physical evidence, or an indisputable witness. Speaking of, no one from the circus is going to be a problem, unless _someone_ particularly eager manages to locate my walrus of an uncle who left Haley’s shortly after... well. Got in a real terrible fight with my mother, but I’m sure he’ll forget all about it the moment he learns of what’s happened. The guy really loved her, you know, despite everything. Guess it must be a sibling thing,” he shrugs a little self-depreciatingly, and Ecco wishes she could tell him all about her Master’s unwavering faith and monumental devotion right now, but she can’t. They’re on a strict schedule.

“That sounds promising. Don’t you worry about the case, Mr. Valeska. I’m reasonably sure there won’t be any challenge in winning it,” she smiles, then promptly delves into the explanation of what exactly she needs her client in order to to secure absolute success.

The two of them have just gotten started on going over the plan to ensure that her client has memorized everything with perfect clarity when the metal door opens again to admit Gordon. Alone this time, which means he’s finally taking her seriously. _Good_ , she thinks viciously, her face a perfect mask of cordiality.

Such a timely interruption all but confirms that they’ve been listened in on — yet another law-breaking of many committed by this repulsive goody-two-shoes. No matter, though, it’s not as if anything of value to the investigation has been said out loud.

A pity Gordon isn’t stupid enough to fall for their ruse.

And when the Detective declares that he’s arresting her client for 48 hours without pressing charges (just as she thought he would), his face contorts with the sense of smug satisfaction Ecco’s all too familiar with. Her Master’s or hers is usually actually earned, though.

 _All the better to pulverize you for daring to imprison my Master’s brother_ , she thinks.


End file.
